


Xavier Holmes - A Holmes Story. Story 1 - Family Ties

by JoshProudlock



Series: Xavier Holmes [1]
Category: Crime Story, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crime Fighting, Detectives, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoshProudlock/pseuds/JoshProudlock
Summary: After a high profile murder is reported, disassociated young detective Xavier Holmes is asked to step in on the case. With the help of his new partner June Watson, the two struggle being taken seriously as detectives as members of Generation Z, and work to better, or carry on their family names while solving the murder.
Series: Xavier Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023816





	Xavier Holmes - A Holmes Story. Story 1 - Family Ties

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy a modern telling of the Holmes and Watson story in my first piece of work titled; Family Ties.

Xavier Holmes – A Holmes Story: (1) Family Ties

A bright morning with the sun in the air on the twentieth of June, twenty-twenty, the light creeped through the curtains of Xavier Holmes’ flat, and targeted his eyes. Despite the sun doing its best to awaken the sleeping young man, it was his phone that finished the job. Xavier took one look at the screen, his eyes struggling to stay open, and as soon as he saw the name of the Chief Inspector his arm was in motion to discard the call and throw the phone into the other room. As the sleeping Holmes attempted to return to his slumber, the house phone decided to make its own entrance and ring throughout the flat. Now at his feet and annoyed, Xavier picked up the phone and groaned down the line.

“Welcome to Police Pizza, our prices are so low they should be criminal, come and arrest us,” said Xavier, slurring his words down the phone.

“Cut the crap Xavier,” barked the Chief, “I need you down here, the Spires Hotel, I know you know where it is.”

Xavier began to pace around his flat, rubbing his head and rummaging around his kitchen, looking for any semblance of actual nourishment for his morning meal. The Chief continued to groan on and on down the phone as Xavier carried about his morning routine, taking extra care to not pay any attention to what words were passing through his ears.

“Listen Chief, as fun as all that sounds, I have a busy day ahead of me, it’s far too early for all this,” said Xavier.

“For one, it’s noon,” the Chief responded, “and for another, you know I hate to do this, but I’m calling in my second promise.”

“Please don’t.”

“I am, so that means I’ll be seeing you, don’t forget to shower this time,” and with that the Chief was gone.

Slapping himself in the face, Xavier let out an exasperated sigh and walked into his bedroom, oping up his crammed wardrobe and picking out a collection of clothes for the day. Throwing his clothes onto the bed, Xavier adorned himself in a pair of grey comfort joggers, a white t-shirt, stained from a piece of pepperoni pizza and a flannel shirt over the top, mostly to hide the stain. Pulling all of these items on, Xavier leant into one of his draws and grabbed a pair of suspenders, slinging them over his shirt and doing his best to tie them to the joggers that cuffed above his ankles. One last look into the wardrobe before closing it and something caught Xavier Holmes’ eye, a jacket, grey and old, was squeezed at the end. With a heavy breath, Xavier reached in and grabbed the jacket, throwing it around his shoulders and onto his body, the end of the jacket touching his knees.  
Slamming his jammed door shut, Xavier walked to the stairs, passing the strange stain on the hallway rug that continued to confuse and flourish his curiosity each day as he pondered the nature and origin of the strange stain. No morning ritual would be complete without passing one of his neighbours on the stairs, specifically, Miss Emily Indecti, the twenty-something Italian woman two doors down from his own, who had just returned from her daily run.

“Oh wow,” said Emily acting all giddy as per usual, “look who’s up before two in the afternoon, normally I see you on my way back out.”

“I’ll be sure to return to our normal schedule soon, I’d hate to miss out on your protein bars,” returned Xavier.

“You off out somewhere?”

“Much to my disgust, a…friend, has called in a favour and decided to make me fulfil the promise promptly.”

“You know Xavier,” said Emily, showing her constant level of compassion, “you should visit your friends more often, they’re closer than  
you think.”  
“I appreciate that Emily, be sure to try and catch me on my way home and pass me a protein bar, I’m out of food and could do with a pick me up.”

With a small side scuttle, Xavier passed his excitable neighbour and walked out the front door of his flat building, looking for his taxi. An elderly gentleman in a black car waved him before pulling up beside, allowing Xavier to enter. Greeting the driver with the minimum amount of human decency needed, Xavier sticked his headphones in his ears, gave the driver some instruction, and began his journey further into the city of London.

*

The crime scene was bustling with police constables and press just trying to get the recent story, all the while trying to grab a photo, but Xavier took no care to them. Walking with lazy pace, he barged his way through the crowd up to the police tape, only to be quickly halted by a policeman on the scene. The constable looked down at him with confusion, wondering why a young man such as himself seemed to care so little about the police tape and restricted section of the road.

“And where do you think you’re off to boy?” The constable asked sternly.

“Into the crime scene,” Xavier said, not even making eye contact with the policeman, “C.I Jameson requested me on scene.”

“Listen here kid, I don’t know how you know that name, but there’s no way you’re getting on without-“

The constable was cut short by the action of a piece of paper being thrust in his face. As Xavier stood there holding the paper, more of the press tried to cram their way through, but he still didn’t bother to give them a second glance. After looking over the piece of paper for a minute, the constable stepped aside, apologising to Xavier as he entered the crime scene. The crowd of press and civilians irrupted as Xavier entered, annoyed that they were not given the same treatment as ‘some Gen Z kid,’ arguing without the knowledge that this young person was now the lead detective on the scene.

Pushing through the tents designed to keep the public eye closed, and keep the biohazard team secured, Xavier managed to make it into the alley around the back of the Spires building, spotting Chief Inspector Jameson and approaching her. 

“Good morning Holmes, or should I say afternoon,” the Chief said.

“A hello would be fine, or no words at all would be even better seeing as that way I’d still be in bed right now,” said Xavier in response, “but I guess you didn’t just call in the second favour for no normal case.”

“You’d be right in that assumption, of course you’re rarely wrong in your assumptions, now aren’t you?”

The Chief walked Holmes around the corner of the alley and over to a bloodied body, lying between two large bins. Holmes crouched down at the body and looked into its lifeless eyes, the blood covering the natural colour of the now deceased woman’s iris’. Getting up and pacing around the alley, Holmes noted the different entrances from behind and beside the building as well as the windows on this side of the building, taking counted paces from the different doors and alleys that lead to the murder scene. And so Holmes’ mind was at work.

Moisture in the air, and as I recall it had rained a couple days ago, yet the blood on the floor here hasn’t been washed away, this was put here recently. And what’s with that? This woman was put here, no signs of a normal dumping just looking to get rid of a body quick, but this wasn’t a definite way to get rid of the corpse permanently either, so what gives with all this? Some sort of display, or was our killer just close by, no work items on her so I doubt she’d just come out of the back door of the building, either that or the killer to them with them.

Xavier gathered his thoughts and pulled out some gloves from his pocket, sliding one onto his scarred right hand and kneeling once again next to the deceased woman, gently leaning her head forward.

'Cause of death, single stab wound at the top of the neck, angled upwards in order to enter the brain and result in immediate death, someone definitely planned to kill this woman. Well duh Holmes look at the woman, if my counting is right, twenty-six, seven, yep, twenty-eight stab wounds, all done post-mortem as best I can tell, seeing as the one in the base of her skull seems to be the oldest. No signs of the weapon but based on the scratches at the entrance of the wounds, with the skin being torn upwards after the stabbings, this was definitely an edged blade, and with those scrappy and cheap edges there’s only a couple places I can think of that would sell them, and only one or two people that would as well.'

'The depth of the wounds sure shows anger, as if the number weren’t a dead giveaway, each stab was pushed in with such force, we can almost guarantee that our killer knew this woman, and wanted to kill her, and has probably wanted to kill her for quite some time. There’s one other thing what it is? Ah of course, the smell is different, of course we have our expected rotting corpse smell but there’s something else, salt, but not just any salt, it lingers on the body as if the killer had been rubbed it in himself. There are no actual salt granules on our victim, but the smell lingers.'

“Holmes?”

Holmes looked up from the body to see the Chief staring right back down at him with a slightly annoyed look. Holmes rises from his crouched position and walks back to the wall with Jameson, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as he walks.

“Do you mind not smoking here?” The Chief asked impatiently.

Holmes looked back at her, dead in the eyes, and stamped on the cigarette, smudging it against the street with his boot.

“Our victim,” said Chief Jameson, “is Amanda Creswell, multi-millionaire interior designer and recent divorcee of the architect David Spires, the designer of the building we’re leaning against.”

“So why aren’t we calling in Spires already, and getting the angry divorced husband to confess already,” said Holmes, pacing in front of the Chief.

“That’s not how actual police work happens Holmes, we’re going to need actual evidence that this was a revenge kill from some angry man, not just go off a hunch of yours, what did you find on the body.”

Holmes looks back to the body of Ms Creswell as the CSI team bags her up.

“Knife wounds, too many of them for this to be a circumstance killing, and a smell, I’ll take it up after the briefing tomorrow at the station.”

Holmes begins to walk away and is stopped by a hand on the shoulder. He turns to see Jameson standing behind him with a stern look.

“You’re going to hate me for this,” Jameson said, calmly, “but you’re getting a partner.”

“No.”

Holmes once again turns away and is once again stopped dead in his tracks.

“It’s not an option,” said the Chief, “we have a fair number of new detectives who just passed their exams so one of them will be shadowing and working beside you, as an equal.”  
“I haven’t needed a partner and I still don’t.”

“You need a partner more than you think you do.”

Holmes shrugged off the Chiefs shoulder and turned into the street, passing by the group of reporters again, barging his way through with both shoulders. Walking down the busy street, Xavier pulls out another cigarette, smoking as he passes by the lines of buildings and shops, the bustling streets being little concern for him. Xavier stops, pausing to think and turns around, taking a corner into the alleyway beside him, before knocking on an old black wooden door. An older gentleman opens the door, takes one look at Holmes and allows him inside, closing the door and locking all of its many locks behind him. The old man leads Xavier through the building and into the main room of a pub. Using his walking stick the old man reaches up and flicks on the light switch, illuminating the drinking establishment in the warm glow of classic orange pub lights. Xavier approaches the fire place, pulling out some tinder from a box and throwing it into the metal cage, using his own lighter to get the inferno burning, heating up the surprisingly cold room. The old man makes his way behind the bar and hooks up the old metal keggers to their taps, grunting as he does so. Xavier hangs up his coat on the rack by the door, brushing it off with his hand and unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt, pulling down the suspenders from his shoulder and taking a seat right at the bar top.

“You know this place doesn’t open until four right, or do I have to spend another couple years reminding you of this?”

“Sorry Al,” said Xavier quietly, “just thought you’d have time.”

“Time?” Al stated, “I’ll always have time for you boy, I had time for you then and I’ll have time for you now, and until I’m dead, I presume the usual?”

“Whatever’s cheap thanks Al.”

Al walks to the end of the bar and pours out a pint glass, letting the foam pour over the top and spill onto the bar as he sets the glass down on the solid, light brown oak. Xavier takes the drink and brings it to his lips, pausing for a moment before taking the glass in motion and not stopping until half of the larger is gone. Al stands there watching on as Xavier downs his drinks, with a disapproving look on his face.

“They’ve called me in to work again Al,” says Xavier, putting the glass down on the countertop.

“Ah, so that’s why you’re here, I did begin to wonder if you’d ever come back after all this time,” said Al.

“I don’t know if I can do this again, the last one was hard enough and now being back, being who people expect me to be, being him, I just…”

“You listen to me boy,” Al said, his voice aimed at Xavier, his words weighing him down like concrete, “you are not your damn dad, and I don’t know how many times I have to get that through your head.”

Xavier leant back on his bar stool, amazed at the power that this old man had just displayed before him. He looked around the empty pub that sat in the alleys of London, making just enough money to keep it and its owner afloat in a world of commercial chain owned restaurants and fine dining cuisine. The old fashion lighting that hung from the ceiling, adorning lightbulbs that were doing as much for the environment as diesel fuel, coated the whole room in a yellow to orange haze with the occasional flickering of darkness due to their age and constant use. Scattered around the room, solid oak tables that had seen more people come and go than anywhere else in the city, with their sturdy legs that were now being held together with hot glue, nails and duct-tape. Everything in the Royal Oak pub had a story and each piece of furniture had memories of the people who would visit day in day out, all kept under the watchful eye of Al, a man who seemed to be just as much a part of this establishment as the bricks that kept the walls up.

*

With a Starbucks in hand Xavier sat on the steps of the police station, sipping his drink and enjoying the free cake that came with today’s deal of the week. The air was surprisingly cool this morning, despite the summer heat being prominent in the weeks weather report, but even with this cool air, nothing much seemed to change, the birds kept chirping, the wind kept its calm pace, and the people of London were more than contempt with a thin jacket that would be of no use later on in the day. 

From the unsuspecting right-hand side of Xavier a woman came and sat down, no less than a foot away from him, holding a large folder in her hand and wearing a dark blue suit and grey shirt. Xavier looked to his right, confused but unfazed by the mystery woman’s arrival. Her hair was a prominent ginger, with streaks of blonde throughout showing obvious signs of dyeing, but despite the effort it would seem the natural red took over, having her hair almost glow in the morning sun. She sat with excellent posture, looking forward the whole time with anxious patience, as if she waited on a command from a higher power to get her to move from her spot. This unsettled Xavier, and just as he began to rise from his concrete seat, the mystery woman spoke up.

“Xavier Holmes if I’m not mistaken?” The woman asked, turning her head quickly to face him.

“Well are you mistaken?” Xavier responded, “I’m sorry can I help you?”

The woman stood up to meet him at eye level, allowing a small smile to creak through her steely exterior and extended a hand.

“June Watson,” June said, “I’m your new partner for the forceable future sir, it’s an honour Mr Holmes.”

Xavier looked down at her hand, and back to her eyes, back to the hand, and back to the eyes again, before opening to ready a response for Ms Watson, but nothing coming out.

“Right…”Xavier said, pausing momentarily, “yeah, no.”

Xavier turned around and walked into the police station, being sure to not take any notice of Watson as she trailed behind him, catching the doors he so rudely let fall into her. Xavier flashed his card to the woman at the front desk and stormed into the main office of the London Metropolitan Police Department. Watson shouted to him as his pace continued at a brisk speed, making his way past the busy desks of regular constables just trying to get their paperwork from the other day complete, but even with Watsons voice breaking over the noise of the bullpen, he took no notice of it. Taking a right at the end of the room and down the corridor Xavier passed into the detectives department and continued his quick walk, Watson doing her best to keep up while carrying her large stack of paper.

With a final push of a large set of doors Holmes made his way into the Chief’s office and stood staring at her as she looked up to greet him. Extending a finger of silence Holmes waited and waited until finally Watson came barging through the doors, extending a series of good mornings and hellos to the Chief before Holmes finally dropped his finger and carried on.

“What the fuck is this Jameson?” Holmes asked with his arms crossed.

“Well you’ll have to be more specific Holmes,” the Chief responded, “because as far as I’m aware two detectives just made their way into my office without asking first or even booking an appointment.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about Jameson am I some sort of a fucking joke to you?”

“Watch the language Holmes you’re in my office now.”

“Why the hell is she my new partner Jameson?”

Watson sprang into action, extending a hand from below her stack of paper, “So sorry ma’am lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise Watson glad to have you abord, would you mind stepping out for a moment?”

“Yes Chief, I’ll be right outside.”

Holmes watched with anger as Watson gathered herself and made her way outside the office, being sure to gently close the door behind her. Holmes slowly turned his head back to the Chief, holding his angered expression as it met her smirking face.

“Before you carry on you should know,” the Chief said, “this wasn’t entirely intentional. Watson is one of the newest graduates of the detectives program and needs a professional to stand by as she completes her study, she’s looking to be a doctor soon you know, could be the youngest in her class, I’m sure you two could relate on that.”

“Did you just want to play into the joke a little further, why the hell have you paired a Holmes with a Watson?” Holmes responded.

“One, she needs a pro, you are one,” Jameson continued, “two, your families have a, let’s say, compatible history together making you a likely success, and with her already being top of her class I wasn’t going to stick you with someone that barely made it past the passing margin.”

“You’re loving this aren’t you?”

“A bit I will admit, in all honesty a lot of it was down to coincidence, but I thought I’d bring back the classics a bit, you’ll work with her, or you’re off this case, got it?”  
“I’m not liking this.”

“I didn’t say you had to, you just have to work with her, she’ll be good for you as well you know…Ms Watson you can come back in now.”

Watson enters, still clutching her papers as she takes her place next to Holmes, smiling.

“Miss Watson,” the Captain said, “meet your new partner, Mr Xavier Holmes, private detective and personal…friend of mine, he’ll be with you on this case as he is doing me a favour.”

Watson turns to Holmes once again and extends a hand, “I must say Mr Holmes it’s a huge honour, I’ve read everything your grandfather did and I’ve even studied your own case files, I must say you have quite the track record.”

Holmes turns his eyes to the Chief, who looks back at him sternly, nodding her head towards the extended hand of Miss Watson. Reluctantly, Holmes extends his own hand and shakes before sitting down in one of the two chair in from of Chief Jameson’s desk. Watson sits next to him and places her files on her lap, watching and waiting.  
Jameson rises from her desk, walking over to the case board on the side of the room.

“As we know,” said Jameson, “victims name is Amanda Creswell, recent divorcee of David Spires, the architect. Both extremely successful and wealthy in result, but from what court records show, the divorce was a messy one, and hard on their daughter of well, whom they still share joint custody of. I’m giving you the lead on this one Holmes, investigate as you please but I’ll need constant updates, apart from that, listen to your partner and solve this thing before the media dumps even more on my desk, dismissed.”  
Holmes shoots out of his chair and swings open the door, taking a swift turn out and into the main hallway of the station. Watson thanks the Chief and begins to catch up with Holmes. Holmes’ mind races with the thoughts of having a partner for the first time in forever and whether or not this would put any implications on his work, or his own mental state. Making his way through the underground car park of the police station, he passes a matt black deluxe vehicle as the lights flash and a loud beep goes off, halting him in his tracks. Xavier turns to see Watson standing less than a dozen paces behind him and holding a small collection of keys in her hand as she walks over to the car and gets in the driver’s seat, honking the horn at the still motionless Xavier Holmes.

Getting in the car, Xavier looks around at the new and fresh smelling leather and the high-tech interior. Watson opens her mouth to talk but is halted quickly by the sound of the electronic seat adjuster going off as Xavier moves forwards, backwards, up and down in his seat, before reclining the seat too far back and just sitting there.

“Are you alright Mr Holmes?” June asked concerned.

“One, I’m fine, two, don’t call me that just call me Xavier,” Xavier said, remaining in his current position. “It smells like new car in here.”  
“That would be the new car smell from this awesome police issued car, nice huh?”

“Better than the classic London taxi I will admit, head to ‘Coles Fish and Chips’ if you would,” Xavier asked.

“What the hell are we going to find at a chip shop?”

“Just drive…”

“Yes sir…”

*

The new car comes to a halt, stopping just on the other side of the street from a busy fish and chip shop, with patrons cueing out of the door and workers running around to serve people. Holmes got out of the car and walked over, crossing the busy street with no regard for safety and making his way inside the chip shop, being extra sure to not care about those cueing before him. Watson hurried beside him as he entered, apologising to the hungry cue of people and doing her best to explain the fact that they were police officers and that their visit was important, much to the hungry masses disgust. Holmes approaches the busy counter, moving a bald gentleman out of the way, and ringing the bell multiple times, over and over despite the staff shouting at him to stop. 

“You want me to stop then you’ll get Cole out here,” Holes shouted through the crowds, “COLE!”

Suddenly, from the back door, a middle-aged man stepped out to examine the commotion. Adorning a white shirt and a distinct pair of golfing trousers, Cole looked into his chip shop to see Holmes making eye contact with him all the while continuously ringing the front desk bell. Cole moved his large body through the chip shop, grazing past the counter tops with his now slightly rotund stomach and took one of his majorly tattooed arms and placed it on top of Holmes’ hand, stopping the bell ringing.  
“What do you want Holmes?” Asked the now disgruntled owner.

“I want a double cod and extra salty chips, with a portion of curry sauce and a seagull on top,” responded Holmes, being extra sure to now keep his voice down.

Cole looked into the crowd, observing each and every person with his sea blue eyes, darting over the room to check the patrons. As he looked behind Holmes, Cole drew his gaze towards Watson, who stood out compared to his usual customer with her official suit and done up red hair. Glancing back towards Holmes, Cole tilted his head and nodded towards Watson, to which Holmes responded with his own nod. With a final silent exchange of words, Cole lifted up the countertop of the chippy and allowed Holmes and Watson to walk to the back. The large, tattooed gentleman led the pair of detectives through the back door of the chip shop and into his back office.

“And what can I help you with officer?” Cole said sitting down in his chair.

“I want to know what you’ve sold and who you’ve sold it to recently,” asked Holmes, leaning both of his hands down on the desk.

“I don’t know what you’re on about Xavier,” said Cole, “you know I run a respectable business.”

“Respectable?”

“That’s right.”

Holmes walked over the side wall and pulled on one of the latches, pulling apart the wall to reveal a collection of blades and handguns, all shining on a pristine wall mount. Cole jumped to his feet, but with Watson standing right next to him, he didn’t go further than that. Watson pulled out her weapon and aimed it at Cole.

“Do not make a move sir,” said Watson, changing her tone from her normal playful one to that of a serious detective.

Holmes reapproached the desk cracking his fingers.

“I don’t have to get you for this you know Cole, you know that we’ve done business before, you give me what I need to know, and this doesn’t leave this room.”

Cole looked up at Holmes with repressed anger, reluctantly leaning into his top desk draw and pulling out a sheet of paper to slowly slide across the desk. Holmes picks up the paper and smiles to Cole, patting him on the cheek before swishing his coat and leaving the room like an actor who just left stage on their first big Broadway musical. Watson pauses for a moment, lowering her weapon before chasing after Holmes as they return to the street. She grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around on the pavement.

“What the hell was that” asked Watson urgently, “we should be in there arresting that guy.”

“He’s provided us with what we need so let’s get moving.”

“He’s selling illegal and dangerous weapons to God knows who.”

“And he’s given us information that could help solve the murder of someone this city considers very important, so you need to understand that for now he is a necessary evil that I have allowed to stay afloat for a few years because he has given insight into a world of people that the Met wouldn’t have access to if it wasn’t for people like him.”

“But…”  
“I know you’re fresh out the detective academy, but you need to know that we can’t arrest everyone.”

Xavier returned to the car, sitting in the passenger seat and waiting for Watson to make her decision about the shady fish shop owner. With angered movement, Watson slams the door as she entered the car and looks over to Xavier who remained looking forward. The pair stayed silent as Watson drove away from the shop and spun around, headed towards the Met again.

*

The silence remained the whole journey as Holmes and Watson arrived back at the police station. Watson lead inside this time being sure to show no regard to holding open the door for Holmes, instead letting the heavy piece of metal fall into him, much to his own annoyance. As the two continued to make their way through the busy building, Holmes did his best to catch up with Watson before they entered the conference room. 

“You know if you still want to work with me, you’re going to have to talk,” said Holmes, doing his best to keep up with the briskly paced Watson.

“I don’t know Holmes,” replied June spinning around to meet him face to face, “how can I just go along and watch a criminal go unpunished.”

“The same way I do.”

“And how’s that?”

“By understanding that in order to eliminate a larger evil, you sometimes need to forget about the smaller ones for the time being.”

Holmes resumed his walk while June stood there, contemplating what he just said and wondered if she, a police officer and descendent of the Watson family, could allow such a thing to alter her thought process. Making her way into the conference room, Watson caught up with Holmes who was already mid-discussion with the Chief.

“Well to be honest with you Holmes this is a long list,” said Jameson, “and while I’m sure we have files on a lot of people, how do you plan on going through each name and tracking them.”

“Slowly,” replied Holmes, “name by name.”

Day turned to evening as Holmes and Watson began their assault upon the list of well over a hundred names, testing their databases on how well they knew each name. As the hours grew later Holmes started by losing his coat, unbuttoning his suspenders and taking the top couple of buttons from his shirt and releasing them from their work. Watson untied her hair, letting it fall down to her shoulders as she stretched her back for the first time in a few hours, letting the crack of her spine and neck echo throughout her body. Holmes took a look at his watch and stood up, walking over to the wall and stretching against it. He looked over to the overworked young June, who continued to pour over the names as her life depended on it, scratching at her head so much that the once primmed and proper woman that sat across from Xavier had been reduced to someone who was slowly crumbling under the weight of her first major case. Holmes remembered the feeling well, the feeling of needing to do something as quick as possible before he realised that tearing one’s self apart is not the way to get anything done with any semblance of your sanity remaining. Xavier Holmes approached June Watson and closed her laptop.  
“Come with me,” said Holmes, grabbing his coat and leaving the conference room. 

Watson watched as her partner waited by the door, holding it open with his coat slumped over his arms. Grabbing her own coat Watson headed out the door, following Holmes through the corridors and out of the police station, heading across the street with him. Watson continued to follow Holmes in silence as they walked along the quiet and cool streets in the evening, taking road after road and alley after alley.

“You want to tell me where we’re going and why we’re not going through names right now,” asked Watson.

“Because both of us,” said Xavier, turning to face June, “are close to running on empty, so we’re going for a recharge.”

Taking one final turn, Xavier turned into an old, abandoned car park and lead Watson through, revealing to her a large food truck parked against the wall, with a collection of tables scattered close by. The truck read “Jenny’s Eats,” and with its bright yellow paint job the truck sat there, humming away with the large generator engine next to it powering the fryers and grills that produced a number of smells and sights for Watson to look upon. She followed Xavier up to the truck and joined the line with him, looking on at the few people ahead of them receiving foil wrapped delights and select cans of fizzy drinks.

“Is any of this actually any good?” Asked June.

“In terms of your health,” said Xavier, “absolutely not, this stuff is like a heart attack and a stroke got together and made you dinner, but in terms of taste, there’s nowhere else like it in the city.”

Holmes arrived at the front of the que and spoke to the middle-aged woman and being sure to order his food to the specific details. Watson looked on before Holmes turned to her, looked her up and down before looking back to the trucks owner and speaking out of earshot. After a few moments Holmes is handed a small plastic bags worth of food and hands over a handful of money back to the cook, thanking him before walking away with June and sitting on one of the cheap plastic tables. Watson watches on as Holmes unloads a collection of burgers, fries and chicken onto the table. The food sits on the table, steam emitting off them releasing the smells of red meat, bacon, a collection of different sauces and vegetables as well as a hefty amount of grease into the air for June to enjoy.

“I present to you, two Jenny’s burgers, a chicken dippers box and two fat man’s fries,” said Xavier, presenting the food before himself.

“Is this not too much food?” questioned June.

“Personally, I don’t think so, but if this kills me then so be it, who wants to be alive anyway.”

Xavier begins to dig into the food as June laughs at his little side remark, secretly agreeing in her own head. June begins to take part in the feast, diving into one of the burgers reluctantly, before discovering its superior taste and taking bite after bite until the whole thing was gone.

“You know, all this food is going to be a good absorbent for…this,” said Holmes, pulling out a bottle of whisky and some glasses, placing them down on the table and filling them up.

“Do you really think we should be drinking while on duty?” Said June, the caution in her voice coming through.

“I think we should be fine with one drink, something to take the stressed edge off you.”

“Sorry,” said June, “just trying to get this case solved quickly you know.”

“I understand,” said Xavier, “and I don’t want you to think that I don’t care, which I don’t but I’m legally inclined to, anyway, I want to solve this case, anything that gets my brain moving is a good thing.”

“That’s another thing,” said June, taking a sip of her drink and retching at its classic burning sensation, “why aren’t you a full-time detective, you clearly have the mind for it, I mean, the mind runs in the family clearly, so why don’t you use it.”

Holmes stared at her with confusion, taking a large neck of the drink and slowly filling it back up before even looking back to the woman sitting across from him.

“Because I never wanted to,” said Xavier, looking June dead in the eyes, “I never wanted to be this person, but it seems like the universe just loves screwing over the Holmes family.”

“What do you mean? The Holmes family is famous, your grandfather was an amazing man.”

“An amazing man with a serious opium addiction, an obsession with his work that drove away every person he knew, oh right, if they weren’t killed because of him of course.”  
“What about your father, wasn’t he a police officer at least?”

“What about your family huh? History of armed forces and detectives, not to mention your uncle was the right-hand man to my own grandad, Jameson just loves to relive the past, she’s almost as obsessed with my pa’s story as you are.”

Watson watched as Holmes necked another drink, slowly emptying the whisky bottle glass by glass all the while not answering her questions. She wondered why Xavier was so inclined to talk about his family and what had happened between the revered detective of old, and the generation z mastermind that refused to live up to his family name. Even while June wondered, Xavier knew, he knew deep down the history of lies and tragedy in his family, the story of his father, the stupid alcoholic who would beat him, the man who took the Holmes name one step into the modern day and let it crash and burn with the son of Sherlock Holmes. It was this history, even with the greats of the Holmes, that was splattered with discourse and lies, with a history of losing everyone and everything over and over again, and the young Holmes didn’t want this. Even if Xavier was hesitant to admit it himself, he just wanted to be a normal young man, taking part in university that he had already surpassed intellectually at the age of thirteen and enjoying nights out without the drinks bringing back the suppressed memories of his father.

“Oh my god this stuff is good!”

The excited shouts of June snapped Xavier out of his dazed state, bringing him back to the reality of eating greasy food in a city car park. With a small smirk, Xavier took a fizzy drink and began to gulp from it, before standing up and putting on his coat.

“While I thoroughly enjoyed all the paperwork,” said Xavier, “I should get home and into my bed with the hope that I don’t have to wake up tomorrow.”

“Hang on,” said June, “I can give you a lift.”

“Oh no it’s fine I’ll call a taxi I wouldn’t want to…”

“I’m cool to do so, I’ve only had one drink I’ll be fine, come on where do you live?”

“Well…”

Watson and Xavier pulled up outside Xavier’s flat building, sitting for a moment outside the old and crumbling brick structure. June looks over Xavier and observes the building, noticing its cracking bricks along with the several homeless people sleeping outside it.

“This is where you live?” Asked Watson, with a sense of optimism.

“Yes…” said Holmes, “anyway, thank you, I will see you tomorrow after I scoff down a plate of dinosaur-nuggets and a pint of cranberry juice.”

“You don’t want me to walk you inside,” said Watson.

“No, no it’s fine, I wouldn’t want you to get shouted at by my landlord anyway.”

“Alright Holmes, guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yep,” said Holmes, getting out of the car and slowly closing the door and walking around to the driver’s side of the car, “and I told you to not call me Holmes.”

“Whatever you say…private detective,” said June, rolling up her window before driving away, leaving Xavier stood outside of his flat building. Xavier watched the car as it drove away and turn around the corner at the end of the road, wondering what tomorrow would hold for the ever-growing murder case.

*

As the new day arose, Xavier lay there sleeping soundly surrounded by crumbs and bottles of different levels of alcohol. A loud collection of knocks at the door awoke him, forcing the tired youth to rise from his mattress and approach the door, rubbing his eyes as he flipped open the multiple locks that protected his residence. Not half a second after opening the door, and June Watson came barging in, mumbling to herself and exclaiming different case details as she entered the flat. 

“By all means come on in,” said a tired Xavier, “it’s not like I was sleeping.”

Watson turned quickly towards Xavier and paced at him with speed, forcing him to take a stumbled step back to avoid colliding with her as she thrust a piece of paper in his face. Xavier took the paper from her hand and observed a name on the paper, surrounded in red scribble.

“A charge for one-hundred and fifty pounds to David Spires’ private credit card for Coles Fish and Chips,” exclaimed Watson, “either this man likes the chippy more than any man in the city, or we have a slice of evidence to go knocking on his door with.”

Holmes smiled, running into the other room to grab his clothes and get ready to go out, shouting to June in the other room.

“How did you get into the building?” Xavier shouted through the door to his room.

“Your landlord let me in, he told me to remind you that you have rent due in a week.”

“I know I have rent due in a week; god you forget one time I tell you what…are we headed straight to Spires?”

“That’s the plan, already let the Chief know so we have all clear, there should be two other patrol vehicles ready for us at the gate to his manor house.”

Holmes emerged from his room, dressed in a white t-shirt and black jeans, with an oversized green checked shirt covering his top. He passes back the sheet of paper and follows Watson down the stairs and into the car, heading off to the Spires estate.

As the car drove down the long country roads, Xavier looked out the window and watched the world go by and the passing trees turned into nothing but green blurs. His head was still aching from last night’s drinks and the memories became nothing but specs in his mind, but one thing was for sure in the mind of Xavier Holmes, this case had captured him, and it was one he needed to solve, for reasons he did not yet know. Leaving the city Xavier took notice as the concrete jungle became thinner and thinner and before he knew it, the buildings were no longer mass pieces of stone scraping the clouds, but instead hand-crafted brick constructions that barely went above two stories. The skate parks and basketball courts were replaced with country paths built for horse riding and National Trust parks ready for the retired rich to enjoy every day of the week, a freedom those in the city and Xavier himself had never experienced, even if the wealth was there. 

As June took a turn, the large road became a single car width driveway that made its way up to the Spires estate. A large manor in the country came before Xavier and June, showing them the wealth that came from working in the city and building every other building in it. The cream white exterior of this eighteenth-century home stood between the large wooden pillars that kept the house together and exuded history from a single glance at the structure, while the cars outside gleamed in the sun due to their waxing coats and new wheel rims, showing off the class that was a modern luxury vehicle, and leaving multiple tracks in the stone based driveway. Even where cars weren’t parked, there were tire lines on the drive, providing more evidence to Holmes about just how much this family had.

“Ready to go?” Asked June, pulling up outside the Spires manor and opening her door.

“Let’s see what Mr Spires has to say for himself,” said Holmes, getting out of the car with such speed it was almost as if he had leapt out.

The detectives adorned their coats and badges and approached the door of the manor, quietly breathing to themselves as they drew closer to what could be a potentially dangerous murderer. Knocking on the door Holmes and Watson waited, and waited, and waited as the door remained unanswered. Watson looked over to Holmes before knocking again with more force, slamming her fist into the solid oak door so hard it almost left a dent. A moment went by and just as Watson was ready to get the door broken down, a click of a lock sounded out, and the door open to show not the architect David Spires, but a young woman, almost as old as Holmes and Watson themselves.

“Good morning miss,” said Watson, “correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t this the resident of David Spires?”

“That’s right,” said the young woman, clutching onto the door with a certain degree of confusion and fear.

“So what are you,” said Holmes, butting in, “his new pickup since the dude lost his wife.”

“What, no, oh my god gross…I’m Emilia Spires, his daughter.”

“Miss Spires is your father home; we’d like to have a word with him regarding your mother?” Asked Watson.

“Yeah he is,” said Emelia, “sorry I couldn’t get to the door quicker, I was reserved to my bedroom and normally daddy opens the door for everyone.”

Holmes and Watson made their way inside, following the young Spires girl into the homes grand entrance. A crystal chandelier hung above the detectives as they entered, shining over the whole room and making its main reflection on the white marble flooring that proved to be more expensive than the entirety of Holmes’ apartment. Paintings from across the world filled the walls of the manor from the door to the back of the room, depicting everything from battles lead by great rulers to peaceful depictions of Greek and Roman culture with all the foods and wines that that culture offered. As Holmes made his way through the door, he took notice to the large door, but more so on the sides of the door where it became apparent that someone had been scratching against the classic wood that made up the frame.

'Someone’s been trying to get out at least once or twice, some of these scratches are deeper than others and there are definitely older ones. They seem to make up a woman’s length in terms of a rich woman’s nails. The floor, of course the floor, there are more scratches, from heels, shoes, definitely not barefoot meaning someone wasn’t out in a hurry or planning to leave their world behind. Based off the distance between the floor and the door scratches I’d take a guess at saying the person who was here was about five-foot-five, leant over to pull themselves out of the house, but it seems like someone got to them first. Could be our victim, could be someone else, what else is Spires trying to hide?'

Holmes and Watson followed Emelia up a large, carpeted staircase, passing by more pieces of art, as they drew closer towards the study that Emilia stated that her father would normally reside on a weekly basis. Passing by the rooms upstairs Holmes took notice to the excess that there were, from bathrooms to bedrooms each was larger than most whole apartments in London. Watson walked ahead with the other police officers that had accompanied the detectives inside and noticed that Emelia seemed to walk rather slowly for a girl of her age, causing Watson to have to slow down on most occasions in order to avoid bumping into her. Emelia came to the door of her father’s study and knocked on the door, stepping back and bowing her head as she waited for the door to open.

“Daddy, are you in there?” Emilia asked, knocking again to find no answer.

“Mr Spires we’d like to ask you a few QUESTIONS!” Said Holmes, who paced towards the door with speed before kicking it down and sending the handle flying off and onto the floor.

“Oh my god NO!” Emilia screamed as the door flew open, allowing the whole party to enter the study to find David Spires sitting there, dead in his chair, with blood covering his entire desk. Emilia screamed before making her way over to her face, crouching down by the body of her father and crying onto the floor. Watson leant over to an officer and pointed her head towards the crying girl, making sure the officer got her out before she even dared to say another word to Holmes.  
“Not David Spires then, unless this was guilt,” said Watson, standing in front of the desk as Holmes circled around him.

“Definitely not a suicide,” replied Holmes, crouching behind the leant over body, “the bullet wound here is that of a Beretta ARX 160, creating a large exit wound on the back here.”

“What does that mean Holmes?”

“It means, that whoever shot him, based off the size of the wound and the fact that we have a clear bullet in….that wall there,” said Holmes, pointing towards the end of the room, where a splintered piece of wood sits on the floor below a bullet hole. “This means….wall, Spires, chair, window…five-hundred metres that way.”

Holmes turned to the window to see a large black Range Rover parked on a mound of a hill straight behind the Spires manor. Looking through the bullet hole in the window Holmes saw a masked and hooded figure getting into the car and throwing a rifle in the back seats. Breaking into an immediate sprint Holmes barged passed Watson and the other officers in the study and made his way down the stairs and out the door to see none other than the four by four speeding away across the Spires land. As Watson came out to meet Holmes at the entrance to the house, Holmes ran back to her, colliding into June before taking her holstered handgun and opening fire on the moving vehicle, hitting one of the backseat windows before Watson pounced on him. Taking back her gun, Watson holstered the weapon in her belt and ran beside Holmes as the car made its way out of the gate and drove away. Holmes turned to face Watson but was met with a slap in the face.

“What in the ever-loving hell do you think you doing,” Watson screamed, slapping him again, “this…is not your handgun nor are you licensed to carry this handgun or use it unless absolutely necessary!”

“Our killer just got away!” Screamed Holmes right back.

“Then we track them and find clues to determine their identity…the proper way of doing police work, Jesus Christ I could arrest you right here and now, and if you weren’t my senior detective on this case, I would have done so without a second thought!”

A whole hour went by before the rest of the police department turned up with the CSI team, ready to bag up and move David Spires to the morgue. Xavier stood waiting and smoking on the front steps of the house as a familiar blue car pulled up on the drive, and out of it climbed Chief Jameson. Stamping out his cigarette, Holmes leant back against one of the columns at the grand entrance and waited as death herself came marching towards, and straight passed him. Xavier followed Jameson inside the house that had now been cornered off with police tape and lead her up the stairs towards the scene of the crime. At the top of the stairs Jameson stopped, turning to Xavier as she stood a couple steps above him.

“You realise how much shit I’m in right now,” said Jameson, “you realise what shit you’re in?”

“I do,” said Xavier, “but I also understand that what I did, I did to stop a killer who has now successfully torn down a family and business that keeps the city together.”

“If you want to carry, you’ll have to get your license.”

“Already have one.”

“If you already have a license I want to know how, why and then why you took Watsons handgun?”

“Got it a year ago, right after…I thought I’d be carrying on with all this but then, yeah, so I don’t have my own because its in my bed side draw.”

Xavier made his way past the Chief and into the study at the end of the hall, dismissing all the CSI team who were currently analysing the poor body of Mr Spires. He took notice to the blood over the desk and wall in front of the body, taking his gloved hands and running a finger down the blood-stained wall, smudging the blood further down the wallpaper. Sticking his finger in the bullet hole that had made itself a home inside one of the support beams that held the study together, he took notice that the hole still retained some heat that was warmer than the room itself. The Chief came into the room and paused, taking in the sight before her and the mess that had become of the study, looking down the side of the desk Jameson saw the scattered remains of a multitude of desk items including staplers, paper and a coffee mug.

“I had the same thought by the way,” said Xavier said, walking away from the wall to meet the Chief face to face.

“And that is?” Questioned Jameson.

“Someone else was in here before the murder, could be our murderer, could be someone else, but the blood here is covering some of this stuff, meaning it was thrown onto the floor pre-murder.”

“So someone was angry at Spires.”

“Someone who knew him as well, you don’t get into the mans study and use his money without having some form of connection to the guy.”

Holmes took a step around the desk and walked back over to the window, admiring the clean finish along the edge of the windows and the shine of a freshly cleaned triple glazing glass sheet.

“We missed them by a second Jameson,” said Holmes, “our killer was right down there, and must have taken the shot less than two minutes before we got here, he was bloody packing up when I saw him, and now he’s gone.”

“Then you best get to work Holmes and find the bastard.”

“Blimey and you tell me to watch my language.”

“I do that because you’re one of them young ones who should keep their words clean.”

“Gen Z is here to rule the world Jameson,” said Holmes, “whether you like it or not.”

Jameson chuckled and shrugged off the young detective and left the room to consult the rest of her policing team. Just as Holmes was ready to leave the study turned crime scene, a sight on the floor caught his eye. Just to the right-hand side of the body was a bloodless space on the floor, strange considering the how the rest of the floor had turned into that of a rouge coloured puddle. Holmes crouched and looked at the gap in the stains and how the blood was slowly beginning to fill the space, as if the item that had been there had only recently been removed. Calling in one of the CSI team, Holmes enquired as to whether any piece of evidence had been taken from this spot, but as he expected, the CSI team knew nothing about the gap in the crime scene. Holmes instructed the team to try and gather any new evidence or DNA from the stainless gap as he left the study and continued his investigation around the house.

Walking down the corridor, Holmes threw his blooded gloves into a biohazard bag and acquired a new pair from the passing police officer. He approached the room of Emelia Spires, the eighteen-year-old daughter of now two dead parents and entered. Looking around the large room Xavier began to notice things that grasped his concentration and focus.

'I get it, she’s the daughter of two very…technical people, but what kind of eighteen-year-old has posters of her own families work on the wall of her bedroom, and on a plain grey wall none the less. Hardly the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old woman, societal standards gone or not. But I guess that’s nothing compared to the door, I mean, how many locks is too many, does this girl really demand that much privacy so she’s installed all these, but wait, no, these locks, they’re designed for exterior use, locked from the outside. I know the daughter has a bit of history with the high society in being a little bit rebellious but aren’t we all.'

'Plenty of books, nothing fun though is it, wouldn’t kill for a bit of fantasy and sci-fi instead of… ‘Architecture of the Modern Day – Changing the concrete by David Spires’…nice, keep it in the family. This girl was obviously doing her best to make sure she inherited the family business when the dad died, can’t imagine she thought it would be this soon though. What’s this? The bedside table, oh, yes, Mr and Mrs Spires with Emilia at the entrance of the Imperium Plaza Building, must have been a few years since the grand opening now. She looks just like her mother, same hight, hair, everything, no need for a DNA test there is there, is that the same nail polish as well, blimey there’s trying to look like an idol then there’s this.'

Xavier left the young girls room and made his way back into the corridor of the home, walking down the stairs and into the main rooms on the ground floor of this gigantic manor. Entering the kitchen Holmes ran his gloved hand along the smooth marble surface of the kitchen island to find no resistance as he glanced his head upwards and admired the sheer number of copper pots and pans that hung from hooks above the island. The windows of the kitchen looked out onto acres of green land where the fields lay freshly cut with a gardener outside trimming the bushes about two kilometres from the window Xavier observed him from, and yet he continued his work, completely unaware of the commotion inside the manor. Turning away from the window, something seemed to catch Xavier Holmes’ eye, a pane of glass on the floor, not too dissimilar from the windows in the kitchens themselves but nevertheless not a perfect match. Xavier turned to the grieving Emelia who stood frozen in the kitchen.

“Getting some work done?” Asked Xavier, picking up the pane of glass that sat beside the door.

“Oh,” said Emelia, pausing momentarily as she snapped out of her trance, “yes…my father, wanted to get the windows in here replaced to a better quality, that’s just a sample that the contractor bought over.”

“Right, may I take this?”

“If you think it’ll help catch his killer you can take the forks and spoons for all I care, not like I need them anyway…”

Emelia grabbed her bag from the kitchen counter and exited the kitchen through the south side door, moving further into her maze of a home. Xavier passed the newly acquired pane of glass to a police constable and moved along into the next room, passing by more and more luxury as he moved. The dinning room came before Xavier with a long table that stretched the length of the room with the power to sit up to twenty people with ease. Moving along the table Xavier noticed that the chairs at both ends of the table were the most worn, with a third chair near the centre matching their same level of use, due to the fading in the wood that would come from months and years of pulling out the same chair at least once a day.

The garden continued to provide its majestic view from the large windows on the south side of the room, presenting once again the large area of woodland and grass that the Spires’ had acquired over their years of well payed work. Looking down the table the sun that poured in from the windows cascaded over the long piece of oak and made its home reflecting in the glass of the wine rack that sat just beside the door in which Holmes had just entered from. Reading the labels on the wine Holmes squinted as the lower bottles became increasingly difficult to read with the sun blinding him as it reflected on the thin and expensive glass. As Xavier went to pull his head back up from the wine cupboard, he paused, not to take notice of more wine, but to notice that something had changed in the quick second that it had taken to move his head less than a few inches to the right and back up to its regular standing. Moving his head back down Xavier’s eyes we’re once again met by the glare of the sun on the large wine rack that towered before him, and yet, despite the sun doing an equal job in most of the room, a similar wine rack to his right seemed to provide no attempt to blind him as the one directly in front did.

He moved towards the second wine rack and looked on curiously, observing a much thicker and durable wood that had been used to construct it, as well as a thicker and slightly more tinted type of glass that provided a view to the thousands of pounds worth of alcohol, which was strange considering it seemed that the two we’re supposed to look identical. This detail intrigued Holmes as he further inspected this imposter wine rack, knocking on the glass and side panels of the construction as he moved across it.

“Think you can hide something from me eh?” Questioned Holmes, mumbling to himself as he moved to the far-right side of the wine rack, making a final tap on the side of the wood and hearing a distinctly different kind of knock as apposed to the rest of it. 

Looking down to the floor Xavier saw how the carpet near this wine rack had become increasingly more faded than the rest of the room. Opening the glass doors Xavier’s eyes darted over the different bottles of vintage wine until his eyes stopped dead in front of him, noticing a bottle of vintage red wine with the date of release being the twentieth of June, nineteen-sixty-seven, the exact birthday of one now dead David Spires. With a cautious hand Xavier moved his arm and grabbed a hold of the bottle, pulling on it to hear the click and clank of a mechanism at work, and not to his surprise, finding the whole wine rack move along the floor, revealing none other than a secret tunnel leading into the basement of the home.

“Bingo,” said Holmes, smiling with glee, “oh detective Watson, would you be so kind as to come into the dining room?”

“Is there something I can help you with….Oh my god!” Shouted detective Watson, coming into the room to find a seven-foot wine rack out of place, and a tunnel door in its normal place.

“Seems like the Spires household has more to show us,” said Holmes.

“Detectives, I was wondering if I could- oh…” Emelia Spires emerged from around the other room, clutching her phone close to her chest.

“If you want to know what’s going on, I’m just going to have one of our constables take care of you alright Emelia,” said Watson, pointing her towards an officer waiting in the doorway.

Watson turned back to where Holmes was standing to instead find no man before her. She looked around before looking down the tunnel and frowning, realising that her partner had now decided to venture down the dark, stone covered passage, and deciding it be best for her to follow along. Coming down the tunnel Watson passed by surprisingly clean stones and a perfectly carved out passage that had clearly stood here for some time and as she ventured further, she came to a large, cave like opening, in which Holmes stood in the middle of. Looking around the now well-lit room, Watson observed the lightbulbs that provided such a light source, covering the room in a hazed orange light. The light provided sight that revealed the stone walls adorning racks of rifles, shotguns and handguns, all different sizes and calibres stretching the whole lengths of the walls.  
“I know we’re allowed some guns for sport in this country but…”said Watson.

“But not like this,” interjected Holmes, pacing down the racks, “and based off the fact that I saw this guy arrange the books in his library by alphabetical order, we go down the line here and you tell me what’s missing.”

“The rifle used to kill David Spires,” said Watson, putting her hands on her hips in disbelief at the sight before her.

“Right in the B section, a missing Beretta ARX 160 should sit here,” said Holmes, standing in front of an empty gun rack along the full line.

Holmes carried on down the weapon cave to come to yet another tunnel, leading to a light source. Holmes and Watson journeyed down the tunnel together, pacing along the wall slowly so to be sure that anyone who may be currently in the tunnel would not be alerted to their presence. A faint rumble caused the detectives to halt, until Watson noticed something about the sound.

“That…that’s one of our police vans, this tunnel must lead out the back of the manor.”

Watson took the lead and quickened her pace as the pair approached the end of the tunnel and the back of the manor. Holmes looked above him as they carried down the tunnel, noticing a fairly new set of pipes, touching them as he went along to feel a slight vibration inside them. He observes the pipes as they get towards the end of the tunnel and sees that they connect to a large gas container, the gas container that would provide the entire manor with its supply of gas for heating.

'Strange, these pipes shouldn’t be moving one bit considering the temp. I doubt anyone decided to turn on the heating in this sort of weather, unless. Wait, what’s that beeping.'

Holmes drew his gaze towards the end of the cave, where Watson stood looking at the end of the pipes and exit of the tunnel with absolute fear. Holmes approached her slowly and turned his head to meet where her own remained frozen in place. There, placed against the wall and providing the source of the faint beeping, was an explosive piece of C-four, waiting for detonation.

“We need to go,” said Watson, “now.”

“Wait,” said Holmes, drawing his face closer to the explosive.

“What the hell are you doing are you bloody mad, that thing could blow any second!”

“Oh yeah this thing could yeet us both in seven different directions, but I’ve seen this type of explosive before,” said Holmes, taking a closer inspection. “This is a timer based explosive, meaning whoever set this thing up was supposed to set the timer right here on this phone, but didn’t, raising a bigger question of why? Why aren’t we deep fried and crispy in the Spires manor already if our killer meant to arm this, what were they waiting for if they just wanted to have a certain chance of wiping all the evidence.”

“Well if that thing’s not going to blow right away, I’m calling bomb squad.”

“By all means, unless I click a few buttons this thing isn’t going to go boom at all, unless we shoot it or make it unstable of course.”

“Holmes,” said Watson, turning to him as she dialled bomb squad, “not the time, alright?”

“If not now, then when am I going to get another chance to explode in a tremendous fashion?”

“Just….let’s leave the damn tunnel.”

Xavier and June waited outside the cave as the bomb squad worked on removing the deadly explosive from the pipes that could lead fire and death throughout the house in seconds. June looks on with concern while Xavier looks around, showing little concern for the danger a mere twenty feet in front of him. Suddenly from around the corner, a police officer comes walking, carrying a brown paper bag and approaches Xavier, who takes the bag and shakes hands with the constable. June looks over with her concerned glare as Xavier dives into the bag pulling out two large McDonalds drinks, holding one out in front of the concerned detective and waiting for her to take it. After a moment of hesitation and looking over to the bomb squad, June took the drink and returned to her position, drinking while she watches the bomb squad at work. Despite June doing her best to remain focused on the threat in front of her, a new scent takes Junes focus, and draws her stare back towards Xavier Holmes, who she found now sat on the floor, diving deeper into the McDonalds bag and pulling out individual burgers and meals. Xavier once again leans over towards June, extending a burger and fries towards her with a grin on his face, taking notice to her concerned glance.

“They’re going to be a while you know, nothing we can do,” said Holmes, taking a few fries in his mouth.

With another reluctant grab, June took the meal presented before her, sitting beside Holmes and eating her burger while the bomb squad continued their task. 

“How did you know I liked Big Macs?” Asked June, taking a huge bite.

“I didn’t,” said Holmes, “based off popularity results across the country and the combination of ingredients being an expert craft, I….guessed.” 

“Good guess, and well done going large on the meal.”

“Not a good job on my part, cost me another pound-twenty, guess I’ll be broke now….ah well, worth it.”

“I can only apologies, but this is a good burger, first meal I’ve had all day,” said June chuckling in disbelief.

Holmes and Watson continued to eat on the mound of grass that stood as part of the Spires land, a miniscule amount of the acres of land that made up this landscaped fortune. Xavier looked out into the mass miles of land that sat behind him and wondered whether this sort of wealth was meant to be, was there supposed to be this sort of wealth available to one person, because without a class system, the system would collapse. Xavier thought back to his own possible wealth, an account that lay in waiting for Xavier Holmes to take ownership of, along with ownership of a home, the Holmes residence of 221b Baker Street. Holmes thought back to a conversation he and Chief Jameson had back in the station before he had even met his partner June Watson.

“You have to accept who you are, you have to be Holmes,” said Jameson.

“I don’t know if I can be, after my father did such a great job sinking our name into the dirt, is there even a Holmes left, does who I am and what my blood is matter  
anymore?” Asked Holmes, taking a drink from the glass on the side of his armchair.

“Your name is what you make it, with your father gone the name is yours, and you can save it. You’re more like your grandfather every day, and even though I only met him a  
couple times towards the end of his life, you’re a lot like him.”

“Addictions and all…”

“Yeah we should get you to see our on-site therapist.”

“That’s tomorrow Xavier’s problem.”

“Well today Xavier’s problem, isn’t over yet. Xavier…they’re going to sell 221b if you don’t claim it in the next two weeks.”

“So what…it’s just an old house.”

“It’s your house and if you’re going to truly be you, then you need to think about what that house is going to mean to making sure your name isn’t dead.”

In the past week that this case had engulfed his life in, Holmes often thought back to that conversation, thinking about what it meant to his work, his life, past and present. Was a Holmes the person he was meant to be, or was this the end for the detective of 221b Baker Street?  
Holmes’ thought was quickly interrupted by the ringing of Watsons phone, sounding off next to them both while they ate. June answered her phone, doing her best to talk through a mouthful of burger and fries. All of a sudden, June spat out her food, letting a few pieces of fry fall onto Xavier’s lap as she took the call with a wide-eyed expression of disbelief and fear. Xavier looked over in annoyance at his stained trousers while June spoke on the phone, her face growing in anger with every second, and after a final goodbye on the phone, she turned to Xavier.

“The transport that was taking Emelia Spires back to the station was ambushed by our shooter,” said June, getting up and wiping herself off.

“What?” Said Holmes, darting to his feet to catch up with Watson, “how?”

“The constable driving her said he pulled out in front of him in the same black car, aimed the rifle inside, knocked him out and when he woke up the girl was gone.”

“Shit…We need to get back now.”

“Agreed.”

*

Back at the police station, Holmes and Watson stood staring at their evidence board, thinking and waiting to see if any sprinkle of inspiration would come to them and tell them how to find the now missing Emelia Spires. A television in the background played quietly with the news giving details to the public on the abduction of the young girl, and how this could result in a collapse of the investors interest in the Spires brand for the future. Holmes sat quietly, with his thoughts racing like formula one cars through his mind, trying to piece together why both parents of Emelia we killed, and why she herself was taken. His mind worked through everything he had seen with the obviously personal killing of Amanda Creswell, the attempts at escape from the Spires home, the rifle taken from a hidden cave below the manor and now the kidnapping of a young girl. Despite his focus being entirely on the loud thoughts within his own mind, Xavier couldn’t help but notice the thinking out loud that came from detective Watsons consistent nail biting. 

“That’s going to cut your fingers you know,” said Xavier quietly.

“Where the fuck is this girl Holmes?” Shouted Watson, shooting upwards from her chair.

“I don’t know, and that’s what annoys me, I’m smarter than you and everyone else in this bloody building and even I can’t make much sense of it.”

“Not helpful.”

“Fine,” moaned Holmes, walking over to the board, “we know, at least we think we know, that our killer had a vendetta against the entire Spires family, even going so far to take out the wife and mother who had already begun to disassociate herself from that family.”

“And they wanted the girl, but why?”

“It’s not just the taking of the girl, none of this has been flashy. The story about Emelia being taken wasn’t given to the media by our killer, meaning he wants to keep this quiet; he wants to keep her and himself out of the spotlight.”

A knock at the door caused Watson to jump while Xavier approached the entrance to their office and opened the door to find none other than Chief Jameson on the other side. She entered without a word and slammed down a USB drive onto the table.

“Guess what just got dropped at my desk?” Said the Chief, staring at the table.

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say that our killer sent that in,” uttered Xavier, walking back towards the table.

“No wonder they call you one of the best, dropped on the front office desk like it was a bloody thank you note.”

“And again, our killer continues to stay out of the spotlight with Emelia, he didn’t take this to the news or any sort of media, he sent it to us, he wants something from us.”  
The Chief stuck the USB into a laptop that sat atop the large table, allowing it to play for the whole room. An image of Emelia tied to a chair came up on screen, with a man in grey overalls and green gloves standing behind her, holding her shoulders. The man walked around Emelia, crouching in front of the camera with a face hidden by a balaclava and a pair of designer sunglasses. The man spoke with the fluid and smooth voice of a young man, but Holmes picked up on something behind this voice, a repressed cough that made the voice gravel as if they were trying to sound tougher than they actually were, but this wasn’t a forced gravel, it was involuntary. Holmes took a step back as the footage played over and over again, revealing the killers desires.

“We want ten-million pounds out of the Spires personal account,” said the hidden man, “they will pay for what they have done.”

“As if paying with their lives wasn’t enough,” said Watson, falling into her chair.

“That’s just the thing,” said Holmes, “the parents have paid, they’re dead, when it comes to settling things with them this guy’s got everything he needed, but he still wants the money for the girl, he needs the money for something.”

Holmes lay back in his chair, adjusting the crank to allow his head to aim towards the ceiling and spinning as his mind raced with theories and ideas.

'One Emelia Spires has been taken by a man who desires to keep her out of the spotlight and make a hell of a lot of money in the process, but why. For god sake Holmes think, use that brain that everyone says you have.'

'Everything related to the murder of the family and kidnapping of Emelia is personal, from the stabbing of the mother, the missing rifle from Mr Spires personal collection being used to kill him, the use of their bank card to buy weapons and the demand for more of their money. Back in the Spires manor, Emelia’s bedroom what stood out, the posters of buildings, odd, the books of architecture, again slightly odd considering they were written by her own parents, and then the colour on her walls, a weird grey, what a terrible colour to pick, like a bloody prison cell.'

'But wait, because that’s exactly what it was like, a prison cell, with a rebellious daughter who didn’t want to stay where she was. The exterior locks on the door and scratches on all the exits leading from her room to the front door…Emelia didn’t want to stay with her family, she wanted something simpler, she wanted a life outside of it all. Something outside and simple and away with….a contractor, a young lad, or a gardener. The video….'

'I knew I’d seen it before, those overalls our killer is wearing, they’re the same ones the young gardener was wearing while he was working in the fields behind the Spires homes, moments after the killing. He must have turned right after leaving the estate to loop around and come through the back entrance, at which point he blends in with the work and waits to see when Emelia is taken out of the manor, then he strikes, grabbing her and running. She knew this, she knew him, but how and why, why do all this. She knew him, but she knew him well, too well in fact, so well it’s almost as if they’d been seeing her for some time.'

'What else was in Emelia’s room? Dirt, minor specs of the stuff on the windowsill, but Emelia herself isn’t tracking that stuff in, it was our gardener, someone with access to a ladder who could climb in. The specs were dry, meaning he was climbing in at night, he was sneaking in, because Emelia needed to hide him for some reason, but regardless she was seeing and sleeping with him. His hands. He’s holding her shoulders in this video, but he’s not pinning her down, he’s comforting her, he’s looking after he. ‘We,’ he said, ‘We want this,’ not I, we, they’re in it together, they’re working together to get away with the bloody money.'

'The bullet hole in the glass and the fucking pane downstairs, that pane wasn’t a sample for the kitchen it was the exact same size and shape for the study window, they we’re going to try and replace it before we got there, ran out of time, so she had to improvise. A quick fake cry and what does she grab from the floor. The officer that was ambushed said that Emelia’s bag was left in the transport, with a handgun inside, it wasn’t the killers, it wasn’t hers, it was Spires, one from his collection. They were going to use it to make it look like a suicide, out of guilt or grief who knows but who cares, they would have had more time.'

'But if that’s the case where are they. The background, basic enough, with a concrete room, not painted yet, but not old because there’s definitely some construction spray paint along those columns there, and fresh window panes, triple glazing again. Oh my god…'

“I know where they are,” said Holmes calming, springing up from his chair and leaving the room.

*

“And you’re sure about this?” Asked Watson, speeding down the road with sirens waring.

“Positive,” said Holmes, strapping on a bullet-proof vest, “that background of that video was the new Spires hotel being constructed in the inner city, they’d paused construction after Amanda’s death while we investigated.”

“And our killer and Emelia are working together?”

“He may have done the killings, but she definitely helped him gain access and information, there’s no other explanation.”

“Well let’s get there then.”

The car pulls up outside the partially constructed building and the detectives spring into action, getting out the car and making their final checks on their gear. Watson strapped on the final part of her vest while Xavier clipped in his earpiece as the two made their way inside with a patrol of armed police following them. With the go from Jameson back at the station cleared, Holmes and Watson began their walk up the stairs.

“Hey,” said Watson, pausing on the steps to the first floor, “we need to clear each floor.”

“Are you blind,” said Holmes, swinging his arms in the air, “the sun…the sun from the video was shining through the windows with direct light, and you’re not going to get that direct lighting from that sort of time frame unless you’re filming from above the twentieth floor.”

Holmes continued his quick pace up the stairs as Watson and the other police hurried to catch up with him.

“Smart ass,” said Watson, hurrying to match Holmes’ pace.

As they approached the twentieth floor, Holmes and Watson stopped to listen, hearing voices from the other side of the door mumbling about something. Watson put a hand on Holmes’ shoulder, extending a handgun in his direction and allowing him to take it and arm himself. The corridor fell silent with fear, as Watson made a slow pace up to the door, her backup waiting behind her ready to provide support the moment she was ready to make a move. With a nod to her partner, Watson swung her lead up and out, kicking in the door of the twentieth floor and allowing herself, Holmes and the rest of the armed police to storm in to find none other than Emelia Spires and the gardener, standing in front of a camera. 

Emelia shot to her feet as the police burst into the incomplete floor, their guns trained on her and the gardeners movements. The gardener made a move, grabbing Emelia and holding his handgun to her head, backing away from the moving armed police.

“Don’t do it idiot,” shouted Holmes, who had made his way to the front of the line of weapons, “you know you’re smarter than that Sam.”

“How the hell do you know who I am?” Shouted Sam, his gun remaining trained to Emelia’s head.

“Amazing what an employee list will give you, and with a bit more thought I also know that you don’t want to hurt Emelia now do you.”

Sam paused, looking Holmes directly in the eye, “they wouldn’t let me be with her, just because I was fucking poor, they hurt her, and I helped her escape.”

“If you really want to help her, you’ll let her go.”

“But if I do that, I’ll never see her again will I….will I!”

The room fell silent as Sam stood there, clutching Emelia with all his force, his gun still trained to her head. Holmes saw the fear in his eyes and the lack in Emelia’s when it came to this situation and Holmes knew that Emelia Spires trusted Sam with her life, even if the boy himself didn’t believe it yet.

“You can’t send him to jail,” shouted Emelia, clutching onto the arms of her lover, “I have to be with him.”

“You have to know what you did was wrong Miss Spires,” said Watson, her handgun still trained on Sam.

“They tried to change me,” said Emelia, “my parent’s were trying to force me to be something I wasn’t, they hurt me, told me I couldn’t be with Sam, told me I had to marry someone who actually meant something, well he means something to me, so you can’t separate us, I won’t let anyone separate us again.”

Watson looked over to Holmes, nodding in agreement with a silent exchange the two had just made.

“Alright Emelia, you come away and we’ll see what we can do about keeping the both of you together.”

“Really?” Asked Emelia. “Oh Sam, we’re going to be together, come on.”

Emelia released herself from Sam’s grip and was taken by a couple of the police officers to the back of the room to be cuffed. Sam began his walk forward, but the officers remained in his way, which made him realise exactly what was going on.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Asked Sam, confusion and anger growing in his eyes.

“Sam Prone you are under arrest for the murder of Amanda Creswell and David Spires, along with the kidnapping of Emelia Spires,” said Watson, moving forward with handcuffs at the ready.

“What…no, no I’m not going without her!”

Sam swung his arm up, gun in hand, ready to shoot the detective, but before he could get a chance, the bang of Xavier Holmes’ own handgun went off, firing a shot into Sam’s chest, dropping him dead on the floor in front of Watson. Emelia screamed with pure terror as she was dragged away and out of the room to be arrested for her part to play in the death of her parents. Watson approached Sam’s body with caution but quickly dropped her guard when she saw that the boy, only a few years younger than herself, was dead in front of her with a shot to the chest bleeding out onto the floor. Holmes remained in his position, clutching his weapon in disbelief as Watson looked over to him with a saddened smile as a show of thanks. As the other armed police dealt with Sam’s body, Holmes approached Watson, extending the same handgun she had given him not a few minutes before hand back to her.

“Make sure I don’t need to ever use one of those again,” said Holmes, handing over his weapon and walking towards the door. 

As he walked Xavier ran his hands through his hair and pulled off his vest, taking a seat on the stairs they had come up with and pulling out a cigarette. A glance at the nicotine, and Holmes through it away along with his lighter, allowing them to both fall down the stairs and away from his own temptation.

*

Holmes sat waiting in the car for Watson to return from handing in their final case file. The two had conducted multiple interviews with press and higher ups in the police force about their case that had concluded the day prior and were now relieved of duty for the next few days, and for Holmes, it meant he was free to stop consulting for the police entirely. With a tap on the window Watson returned to the car, hopping in smiling.

“Chief confirmed it, we’re clear for the next few days, and you, have completed your second out of three favours for her,” said Watson, shaking Holmes’ hand.

“Another one down, one to go,” said Holmes, taking the handshake in stride, “but, I think I might just start to pop by more often, maybe do a bit of private work from time to time.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and I look forward to working alongside you, Private Detective Xavier Holmes.”

“Likewise Detective June Watson, and I hope to be calling you Doctor Watson soon enough.”

“If the exams are kind enough to let me pass, you’ll be the first to know, well, after my family, the Chief, and my dog Treacle.”

The pair shared a laugh as Watson started the engine, pulling away from the police station and back towards Holmes’ flat building. As they pulled up outside the building, something caught Watsons eye, a suitcase, brown and leather, parked on the steps of Holmes’ building. Holmes gave June a smile before getting out of the car, walking over to the steps and grabbing the suitcase before returning to the vehicle to put the case in the boot, and himself back in the passenger seat.

“You made me drive all this way to pick up luggage?” Asked Watson in disbelief.

“Well the rest of the stuff isn’t being moved till next week, so I at least needed some clothes for the time being, I mean, unless I can be nude in my new place…” Said Holmes’, smiling with a cheeky grin.

“Stop, I don’t need this, let’s just go.”

Leaving the old and broken-down flat building behind them, Watson continued the pairs drive through London, taking all manners of twists and turns through the labyrinth of a city. With one final turn having been made, Watsons car came to a stop, the engine fell silent, and stood parked in the reserved spot outside 221b Baker Street. Holmes extended his hand once again with Watson once again taking it to shake, before he dismounted and approached the door, giving one final wave to his case partner before she drove away.

Holmes entered his new home, spinning the keys as entered the dusty and old rooms of such a historic building. He paced throughout, passing through the rooms where his grandfather himself had sat, solving cases daily for people from all walks of life in the city of London and the boroughs that surrounded it. Holmes ran his finger along the dried and splintering banister as he approached the study towards the back of the house, picking up a line of dirt so thick it could be used to clog a drain. As he pushed on the door to the study, a loud creak echoed throughout the old walls of the house so loud it would be sure to scare off any rodents that may be residing in the upstairs rooms. That was when he saw it, the desk that Sherlock himself had sat at for most of his life, studying books and scriptures alike until his eyes began to fail, and even then, for a good few years after that. But something caught his eye as Holmes both approached and sat at this desk, something that did not belong in old walls of this study, a piece of paper, as new as this morning’s news readings. Holmes grabbed the piece of paper with caution, and upon reading it, dropping his bag and looking at the door which he had entered his new home from.

‘Welcome home Mr Holmes, let the games begin…’

*

*

*  
By Josh Proudlock (2020)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed enough to leave a comment with any feedback!


End file.
